A rod and a one-handed sword are the most common combination for the Arms of the Warwitch, although it is by no means the only arrangement of these arcane weapons. They are obviously favoured by warriors who combine magical lore with martial prowess. Ironically, these arcane weapons are not especially popular with the traditional war witch, who tends to focus more on raw magical power. They are much more commonly used in the League, Brass Coast, Varushka and among the Navarr; even there it is rare to find a warrior who uses both offensive magic and aggressive combat techniques. It is much more common to find a magician with offensive magic and a the confidence to keep themselves or their allies fighting, or a magician who relies on the ability to strike crippling blows and uses healing or utility magic off the battlefield.

In the League, the Brass Coast and Highguard this arcane weaponry is called a set of Dragonbone Scales, and they are often engraved with a set of unbalanced merchant's scales. The name references the way the wielder 'balances' their confidence and inner fire with their magical power.


  • Form: Weapon. A pair consisting of a one-handed weapon and either a rod or a wand. You must be wielding both the weapon and the implement to use the set's magical properties.
  • Requirement: You must have both the ambidexterity and magician skills to bond to these items.
  • Effect: You may either expend one hero point to regain one personal mana, or expend three personal mana to regain one hero point.
  • Materials: Crafting the Arms of the Warwitch requires nine measures of dragonbone, three ingots of green iron and three measures of iridescent gloaming. It takes one month to make a pair of these items.
The Festival of the Little Mother was at its height. Tassato sparkled like a diadem with candles at every corner, and its party-goers shone no less, with jewels at every throat. The city-folk said that the Vass and Gancio themselves were in town, and in full fest. The Cozido was fit to burst with locals and visitors. Small bowls of the stew for which the tavern was named were passed from hand to hand over the crowd, and gratefully accepted by drinkers at three tables in what would usually be a quiet corner...

One was occupied by a Troupe from the south, in for the week and all four still masked from the night's performance.

"...I loved your Beast, Mikael. A work of genius."

"Ah, it would have been nothing without your Mountebank, father!"

"True, true. Here, they may see the Mountebank as a hero, but those of us with more refined tastes see him as the braggart and thief he is. Not to put too fine a point on it, that is the difference between Sarvos and lesser cities."

There was a scraping sound, as chairs were pushed back from the second table. Two men in cloaks and leathers stood and took stance. One spoke:

"Refined, you say? Not quite 'stilled enough yet, I think. Are you ready for the retort, sir?"

"Oh, a Bravo of Mestra! How delightful! How rude of me not to introduce us! I am Jof, the Vassa there is my wife Mia, the Beast is my son, Mikael, and Gancio is Skat, our manager. We are four, and you are two. Tell me, is your sword as sharp as your tongue?"

"We shall put a fire under you, sir, and see that long neck bend to us, under Tassato's heat..."

"You know the name of the Troupe of the Seventh Seal, of course? You know our performances are... Spellbinding?"

"What a coincidence..." said the first as the pair pulled back their cloaks, and each drew short sword and rod.

The second added: "Not Bravos, but 'braggarts'. Though we can match words with deeds: can you and yours...?"

The "fight" was short. Two of the Sarvan Troupe had hardly drawn before they were slammed back to the wall. The one called Mikael was stuck fast to the floor, unable to offer any assistance to his father, last in the fight.

In a final flurry, one of the Tassato mountebanks swiveled with a flourish, swept his rod round in a languid arc, and touched the other on the chest. The Empowered fighter stabbed in low octave, and the Sarvan actor in the Mountebank's mask fell to the floor, grunting in pain, as his left leg collapsed under him.

"As I said. You will kneel..."

The occupants of the third table had paused in their carousing to watch the scuffle. A man in parti-coloured green-and-blue of utter flamboyance stood, and swept a generous bow:

"Two rings, I note? May I interest you both in a third? I am Signeur of the Free Company of Bacalhau. Yes, our little joke. 'Twas all we had to eat defending Holberg, and it stuck. However. The Company of Salt Cod. We travel well... and we are hiring."